


Echo of My Scream

by WelcomeToTheAutumn



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Angst, Catharsis, F/F, Further Edits Pending, Hurt/Cum-fort Writing Contest, Loneliness, Self-Hatred, mild masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelcomeToTheAutumn/pseuds/WelcomeToTheAutumn
Summary: Four years after their first meeting, Mami Tomoe's kouhais are all grown up - and she's failed to grow up with them. Now nineteen years old and stuck attending a college where none of her old friends are present, she's begun to slip into a seemingly unbreakable cycle of overthought and self-loathing fueled by a newfound life in isolation. Madoka and Homura have things to do - have futures ahead of them.Mami has only her memories, and the silence of an apartment that once bustled with life.
Relationships: Akemi Homura/Kaname Madoka/Tomoe Mami
Kudos: 22





	Echo of My Scream

**Author's Note:**

> This was written - or perhaps cranked out - for the Uwasa of the Lewdfic Factory's fourth writing contest, this time hosted by TheOneAndOnly1993. I think I broke half of the rules he set forth in this one, but... whatever, at least I actually got a submission in this time. Further edits pending and will be posted as Chapter 2; 60% of this thing got written on the day of the deadline. 
> 
> Based on the song "Echo of My Scream" by Fear Factory.

__

_ This lonely _

_ Isolation _

_ Follows me _

_ Through my dreams _

__

_ I wander _

_ Around with doubt _

_ So cold and _

_ Incomplete _

I knew that I shouldn’t have been listening to songs like that. I knew that they only served to create the sorts of positive feedback loops that’d made me want to listen to them in the first place. I knew that there wasn’t any  _ use  _ in the self-pity they induced; that there were no real accomplishments to be had and no progress they could catalyze, but… feeling sorry for myself sure was easy.

In some sick, twisted way, I guess life as a  _ whole  _ had gotten easier over the past few years – certainly not from a mental or emotional standpoint, but in terms of “continued existence,” there were undoubtedly fewer responsibilities to be had. Days had gone from adventurous and unpredictable to mechanically routine – wake up, shower, go to school, hunt witches, head home, do homework, and then go to bed. Every day – it was always the same.

Because now there wasn’t anyone around to intervene. Nobody ever stopped by anymore.

It was something that I should’ve seen coming, yet something I so blatantly failed to prepare for – those four girls that I’d known since middle school were all eighteen now, and I a year their senior. They were busy living out the rest of their high school days; gearing up for life at college and the relationships they’d make – and maintain – while they were there. It was easy for me to say that there wasn’t really anything of interest on the “other side” of the education system, but at the same time… I certainly hadn’t made much of an effort to find anything. Not in the way they had.

_ There is nothing _

_ Here for comfort _

_ The spark of hope _

_ I see _

Kyoko and Sayaka were the first to make their “departure.” They’d been in a faux-relationship for months by that point; had even gone so far as to confess to each other on the same date - they’d both gone in thinking they’d tell the other how they felt that day, not realizing that the other had the exact same plan. Things took off afterward, and that was really the last I saw of them on a regular basis - the two of them spent their days hanging out in Kazamino now; hunting witches and making googly eyes at each other while they did it. And… I was fine with that - they’d been so enrapt with each other by that point that their “official” leave of absence didn’t strike me as too big of an issue; if nothing else, I was happy for them. Happy that they’d found someone to love; happy that they’d found someone they could be themselves with - even if, in all the years they’d known each other, their fundamental personalities hadn’t really changed. 

The personalities of the girls that I considered my  _ best  _ friends, though, had indeed undergone some changes. Madoka’s inhibitions, for as omnipresent as they were when we’d first met, had been cast to the wayside years ago. The peppy, fun-loving girl I’d always known her to be on the inside had been released; had managed to befriend almost everyone in Mitakihara, it seemed. Homura… Homura was playing  _ basketball  _ now – nervous, heart condition-ridden Homura, who had gotten into the best shape of her life to the tune of a personal trainer and what felt like hundreds of medically-prescribed vitamin supplements, had now reached a point where she’d grown 15 centimeters in two years! She was so tall now; so stoic and polished… her inhibitions weren’t  _ completely  _ gone – she wore her hair down now, yet those red glasses of hers remained – but she was in a far better place than she’d been when we first met.

In a far better place than I was now.

Looking back, I think it was the relationship that really got them both to break out of their shells – that indeterminate moment when Madoka and Homura mutually decided to cross the line from “just friends” to “girlfriends” and forget about everything other than each other in the process. They were joined at the hip now – even more so than they used to be – to the point that Madoka had thrown together a ragtag cheerleading club just so she’d have an excuse to yell out her girlfriend’s name as she slung basketballs up and down wooden courts all over the county.

It was a great relationship for them – some might say perfect, even. They didn’t argue, from what I’d heard; didn’t fight and didn’t put themselves ahead of the other. Their chemistry was exceptional; their personalities tailor-made for each other. The tall, handsome athlete and her short, perpetually-smiling romantic counterpart – an archetype, through and through. There was no room for negativity; no room for sadness or anger or anything that might disrupt the sheer _lust for life_ they experienced on a daily basis. No room for _anything_ to come between them.

No room for the ancient senpai that they used to hold so dear.

_I breathe deep and_

_Fill my lungs to_

_Silently_

_Release…_

**_Echo of My Scream_ **

Making sweets was a reflex now; an unconscious response to an involuntary process. It used to be a simple formula; that I’d be feeling alone, put together some cupcakes or brownies, toss them in the oven, and then invite Madoka and Homura over on the pretense that I had sweets ready for them. A few years ago it would’ve worked like a charm, but now they were always busy. Always caught up in doing this or finishing that; traveling here or visiting there - seldom visiting  _ me,  _ though. 

And yet the drive to bake remained - this misguided hope that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ I’d actually have the courage to invite them over again if I put some food together. More often than not, though, I’d spend a solid ten or twenty minutes listening to the whirr of the oven behind me as I tried to come up with  _ something  _ \- a plea, a bargain, an invitation, anything - that I could send to Madoka without getting the stock “Sorry, Homura and I are busy today; maybe next time?” response. My patience was wearing thin on such matters, though; my willpower continuously finding ways to weaken in the face of… how many was it up to now, twenty-seven declined invitations within the past six months? 

There just wasn’t a point in asking, I’d figured - that no matter what I did; no matter how much I begged or how far in advance I contacted them, they’d always have  _ something  _ to keep them from stopping by. It wasn’t as if they were actively  _ trying  _ to throw me to the wayside - I knew just as well as anyone how busy a girl’s final year of high school could be - but… at times, I’d be lying if I didn’t feel like their efforts were somehow coordinated. The sort of mechanical precision with which they turned me down couldn’t have been  _ completely  _ coincidental. 

Toxic thoughts again, but what was I to do? There certainly wasn’t much around  _ to  _ think about; not much to do now that the two girls I grew up with had done such an impeccable job of fading away into the distance. Sure, my college assignments were sometimes lengthy enough to keep me occupied for an evening or two, and baking sweets always brought about the  _ hope  _ that they might manage to bring Madoka and Homura back around, but… those assignments were  _ designed  _ to be completed, and those sweets were designed to be eaten. 

Those sweets were designed to feed  _ three or four  _ as well. Being able to secure such numbers of people in my apartment had long been preposterous, I knew, but the monetary cost of producing them was beginning to grow preposterous as well - too preposterous for me to allow them to go to waste, at least. Turns out that isolation can cause a girl to work up quite an appetite for foods of the “unhealthy” variety; it hadn’t caused any  _ irreparable  _ damage yet, but it’d done more than enough to make me go up a dress size or two. My skirts didn’t go quite as far down my legs as they used to, and my long socks didn’t rise quite as high - my swimsuits and underwear alike had all been promptly outgrown, and even the corset of my magical girl uniform had gone from cozy, to annoying, to constrictive. 

Homura had even pointed that out the last time I managed to con her and Madoka into coming over, more than a month ago - she said that I needed to get out of the house some more; that I needed to buy into an exercise and diet plan that she’d draw up just for me in the coming days. I never received either of those plans, of course; never received any communication from her at all, save for her wishing me a happy birthday a few weeks ago. I hadn’t gotten any cards in the mail; no presents or cakes or candles or anything of the sort - just a handful of half-hearted texts, and the sick realization that the girls I’d once known as my friends had now grown up, and no longer had any business hanging around people as old as me. 

-

The man or woman that’d designed the acoustics in my apartment was an individual that I’d long heralded as a genius. Now I thought of them as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

It really didn’t matter what sound was made - it could be as loud as the shattering of glass or as quiet as the dropping of a feather, but so long as it produced  _ any  _ noise, it’d echo. Every ding and clang and chime would make its presence known and then start bouncing from one wall to the other, growing quieter and quieter but never really dissipating until it  _ felt  _ like it. Sometimes that effect was endearing; sometimes it was annoying - sometimes frustrating, but sometimes welcome. 

Now, though, I just wanted it  _ gone -  _ because silence, I’ve learned, echoes as well. 

And maybe that part was on me - someone my age probably shouldn’t have been leading a life that was as socially lackluster as mine; from what I’d seen on TV and read in magazines, girls in that 18-to-21 age bracket were supposed be spending evenings on the town, getting hammered beyond belief to the tune of ungodly amounts of alcohol while screwing every boy in sight. It was  _ expected  _ that a girl my age would want to stay up late and make bad decisions; to forget about the concept of inhibition after the sun went down and find some entertaining nonsense in which to indulge herself. I  _ wanted  _ to be able to do that - to just break away from the silence and do something that  _ someone  _ might consider to be  _ normal-- _

But the drive just wasn’t there. It hadn’t been for a long time. 

The girl known as “Mami Tomoe,” it seemed, was physically incapable of adhering to any “desirable” social norms. Practical strategies for adaptation and maturation had been cast to the wayside; ignored in favor of this ridiculous belief that, no matter how many years past, I’d never  _ actually  _ have to face the perils that came with growing up - and that if I did, I’d have my friends beside me, and that  _ they’d  _ know what they were doing. 

And in that regard, I suppose things had worked out a little  _ too  _ well - because Kyoko and Sayaka and Madoka and Homura all  _ knew  _ what they wanted to do with themselves. They had plans lined up; schemes ready for implementation and contingencies in place - they knew where they wanted to go after high school; what they wanted to do for a living, what degrees and certifications they’d need to make their dreams goals come to fruition, where they’d live, how much money they’d be living off of,  _ everything.  _ They had their entire futures written out in cursive and printed on cardstock, while it took me every ounce of physical and emotional energy I had just to drag myself to class in the mornings. 

A few years ago, I might’ve been appalled by the lack of effort I was putting into my appearance; my  _ existence.  _ I wasn’t dressing up. I wasn’t eating well. I wasn’t exercising; I wasn’t studying - I would sleep in my clothes at night and then wear them to class the next day; would use my magic to fix my hair into those twin drills from a forgotten age just to spare myself the effort of washing it. A wardrobe that’d once consisted of the most graceful of dresses and finest of shoes had since been demoted to a closet full of dark hoodies and low-effort running shorts that my newfound diet of cupcakes and takeout kept rendering too small, and a grade point average that’d once been perfect now bore the marks of a girl that was exerting herself  _ just  _ enough to get by. 

I did what I could to avoid mirrors, but the walls around me served as mirrors for my ears - every weighted footstep and self-pitying sigh would echo throughout my apartment regardless of where I was or what I was attempting to do; would make a conscious effort to  _ remind  _ me of just how fragile my happiness had been. Everything -  _ everything,  _ I’d begun to realize - had hinged on being able to call Madoka and Homura my friends. Kyoko and Sayaka had been out of the picture for a while, but that was fine - because as long as I had Madoka and Homura, the two girls that I really  _ could  _ call my friends, I’d have everything I needed. 

And therein lied the fatal flaw in our relationship - to me, those two girls were  _ everything.  _ But to them, I was just a single piece of an ever-shifting puzzle of wants and needs. 

It wasn’t even worth asking them if they were available anymore. No matter when I tried to contact them or what sort of outing I tried to invite them to, one of them  _ always  _ had something going on. Homura had a basketball tournament. Madoka had to set up an extra cheer practice. Both of them had entrance exams. Somebody had to cover someone else’s shift at work. They were on the other side of town. Madoka’s mom wanted to take her family out for dinner. Something would come up. 

_ Every. Single. Time.  _

The cessation of my trying to get ahold of them was a reasonably logical stopping point to what’d become a saga of disappointments. With the three of us no longer at the same school - with the two of them no longer forced to see my repugnant face five days a week - I’d gone from being a small blip on their radar to nothing more than a stray speck of dust on the monitor; set to be wiped away and forgotten entirely the second they realized it was still there. Several thoughts had made themselves known in the wake of my deletion, but the one that stuck around - for better or for worse - was this sickeningly upbeat notion that in the face of the termination of an era, we should make a point of not being upset because that era was over, but being happy that we got to experience it at all. 

When I wasn’t scoffing over its impracticality, that mindset had proven to be a slippery slope toward thoughts that were nothing short of repulsive. 

But  _ were  _ such thoughts inherently bad? That was the conflict I’d been wrestling with for years to that point; it was certainly natural to have those sorts of…  _ urges  _ from time to time, and it was natural to want to do something about them. And in a controlled, private setting, any sort of… I suppose  _ relief  _ that I subjected myself to was effectively a victimless crime - nobody other than me knew or had any reason to know, it wasn’t  _ hurting  _ anything, it wasn’t getting in the way of anything else I was trying to do… it was fine. Not ideal, but fine. 

That was assuming, of course, that I possessed the ability to get myself off on pleasure and concentration alone - and I  _ didn’t.  _ I tried so, so hard to make sure that process remained strictly biological; that it didn’t stray into territory that could be considered “erotic,” but lest I rub myself below the waist for hours before I finally managed to succumb to my own pleasure, my thoughts - my shameful, shameful thoughts - would inevitably begin to wander. 

Some thoughts were tamer than others. Some were common and largely harmless; things like being able to go outside naked and feel the gentle kisses of the summer breeze against my exposed skin, or going for a nighttime swim in a clear-watered pond tucked away from everything save the moon and the stars.  _ Those  _ were the sorts of fantasies I could live with; the sorts of things that didn’t make me feel like a monster after I finished up. 

There were the “natural” fantasies as well; those that I wasn’t proud of, but ones that at least had sensible, biologically-driven origins. It made  _ sense  _ for a girl my age to think about what it’d feel like to be bent over a table and just get  _ fucked  _ every now and then, because I was still at a point in my physical development where my hormones were telling me I should get around to bearing fruit. It didn’t matter that I was gay and that all my friends were gay too; didn’t matter that I had no plans to bring children into my life with so much of it - at least from a technical standpoint - still in front of me. The sensation could’ve been derived from a strap-on, or an unknown outline of a person that I’d never take the time to flesh out, or anything of the sort - it didn’t matter, so long as that desire to be  _ bred  _ was fulfilled. It… It was something I wasn’t at all proud of, but at least it could be  _ explained -  _ I could  _ understand  _ why I was having those sorts of thoughts, and that gave me some ability, however marginal, to cope with them. 

But then there were the fantasies for which there was no excuse - the sorts of things that kept me awake at night and then lulled me to sleep during the day so I didn’t have to face them. Things that were sick. Perverted. Depraved. Vile. Disgusting. Twisted. Putrid.  _ Revolting.  _

Things that involved… my  _ friends _ . 

There were memories to be had with Madoka and Homura. Good ones. Wholesome ones. But there were those few instances - those three or four times in all our innumerable outings that  _ something _ accidentally turned sexual - that my mind was so insistent on latching on to. There was the day that I’d caught a glimpse of Madoka’s breasts as we were changing for gym class. The afternoon that Homura had gotten hot and spent the day lounging around in nothing but a black sports bra and matching panties, showing me and Madoka just how much she’d grown since we’d first met her. The evening when Homura and I got wound up enough to give Madoka seventeen birthday spankings, and I almost went in for more because the soft, squeezable flesh of her butt had felt so mortifyingly good against my palm.

And then… the one memory that I defaulted to more than anything. The one memory that had  _ photo evidence  _ to go along with it. 

May the 12th. Just a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday. An unseasonable heat wave was set to sweep over Mitakihara for the weekend, but was forecasted to be replaced by an equally unseasonable cold front by Monday. Hundreds, if not thousands of people - the three of us included - packed our things as quickly as we could and made a beeline for the beach, where I booked us a room at a cheap motel before heading down to the ocean and frolicking around like a little kid. We  _ all  _ did it - we  _ all  _ loved it - and Madoka made a point of taking pictures. Lots of them.

There were a few shots of the sun. Some of the sunset, and some of the stars. Some of the water, some of the motel, some of the trees beside the beach, and some of nothing much at all. There were, however, a good many pictures of the three of us - and we were all wearing swimsuits that were far too small. 

The rush to get to the beach by the weekend had left us without any time to pick out new clothes and equipment; we didn’t even manage to secure a bottle of sunscreen until our second day down there. Being able to find new swimsuits - ones that would accommodate for all the growing we did during the fall and winter months - was secondary to just  _ getting out there;  _ to feeling the sun and waves against our bodies and getting so caught up in that moment that we felt like we were the only people around. 

And yet we couldn’t do that - or  _ shouldn’t  _ have, at least. We were all immodest; ill-equipped to handle the shortcomings of our newly-antiquated attire. We were all wearing swimsuits from a different age; a one in which we hadn’t understood the sorts of changes that our bodies would be undergoing by way of a heaping helping of estrogen and raw, unchained  _ femininity. _

My swimsuit was the most immediately unsuitable of the bunch - plain orange and pastel yellow with a low-cut waist and a top that left less and less to the imagination as the trip went on. Even in my rush to get to the beach, I should’ve realized that my top wouldn’t fit the way it used to; that my having gone up two or three bra sizes over the winter would mean that my swimwear would be uncomfortable at best and inappropriate at worst - and at times, it managed to be both. 

In my nineteen years on this Earth, I’ve  _ never  _ shown as much cleavage as I did on that weekend getaway - I spent two straight days knowing good and well that I was  _ already  _ overdue for a massive wardrobe malfunction; just one stray volleyball spike or away from accidentally showing my best friends what my nipples looked like. And… it happened, once or twice - it was quick, it was fixed almost immediately, and it was over before anyone got a good look at what’d gone down, but I could tell by the looks on Madoka and Homura’s faces - with cheeks painted the color of the sunset, lips that curled upward, and eyes that refused to meet mine - that they’d seen something I hadn’t intended for them to see. That embarrassment - that emotional cocktail of shock, shame, chagrin, and a few other things I still can’t quite identify - had been enough to make me watch every step I took for the rest of the trip, and yet… it was fine - it was all fine, because Madoka and Homura were both having to do the exact same thing. 

Like mine, Homura’s chest had indeed done a bit of growing over the winter, but not to an unmanageable degree - just to the point where, for what was probably the first time in her life, people were actually stealing a few looks at her top. And for the most part, that’s where  _ her  _ attention stayed - she could tell when I or Madoka looked in that direction because it was  _ facing  _ her, even though the real development was going on below her waist. 

Over the course of her growth spurt, I’d come to understand that Homura’s legs were getting the most benefit. I could tell just by the ever-shortening length of her school uniform’s socks that they were getting considerably longer, but it wasn’t until I saw her in that all-black bikini of hers that I realized just  _ how  _ long they’d gotten - Homura Akemi, who was once so frail and slender that she could’ve made a wetsuit look baggy, had legs for  _ days.  _

They were long as could be and toned to perfection; muscular beneath the surface from all the running around her had to do for basketball, but coated in a layer of smooth, soft skin that was  _ just  _ thick enough to give her thighs and calves some curvature. Her hips had been subjected to that same sort of rounding off, and when such developments were combined with the sheer length of her legs and a swimsuit that, despite her not really having “filled out” in the way that I had, was still a size or two too small, it resulted in the stretches of fabric around her…  _ pelvis  _ riding up on her - a  _ lot.  _

I really don’t think that she knew it was an issue, because I feel that she’s still simple enough to not even realize it’s something to stay vigilant about, but her bottoms got caught in her butt early, and  _ stayed  _ that way for most of the trip. It’s not to say that she was packing any serious heat back there - she wasn’t even all that well-endowed in that department - but she was still showing off way more skin than what most everyone else was. Every time she lifted her leg up to stretch or bent down to pick something up, her swimsuit rode further and further up her waist, and progressively left less and less to the imagination. I haven’t ever seen another girl naked before, but seeing Homura at the beach that weekend was probably the closest I’ve ever gotten - I saw parts of her butt and thighs that I never would’ve  _ dreamed  _ I’d end up seeing, and somehow, some way… I really don’t think she knew anyone was looking. 

Madoka, though…  _ she  _ knew that she had people looking at her. And she didn’t seem to  _ care.  _ She’d gotten the worst of all the “winter development” we did, or perhaps the best, depending on the context - she’d whipped out that same pink-and-white bikini she’d bought the first time we went to the beach together, and for what it was worth, the top half still fit her pretty well. Even at seventeen, everything above her waist was pretty modest; wouldn’t have looked too out of place on someone a few years younger than she was - but her bikini bottoms…  _ God…  _

She’d grown up so much, I realized. Madoka Kaname, the girl that’d called me her senpai for so long, was beginning to blur the line between “girl” and “woman;” between “cute” and “erotic.” That little white triangle of fabric around her waist didn’t do much to keep her assets hidden from view now; didn’t do much to prevent me from gawking at her like some sick pervert. The way her hips had flared out was just  _ unreal;  _ her thighs had thickened up significantly to compliment them, and her butt - two precious,  _ soft  _ mounds of flesh that ever-so-gently bounced against the fabric of her swimsuit with each step she took - was breathtaking in a way that all but  _ begged  _ me to squeeze and caress it for the rest of the trip. Her body was  _ balanced;  _ proportioned with the precision and allure found only on ancient statues made of the finest marble. Her butt was  _ just  _ wide enough to complement her hips, her torso was large enough to accommodate for the thickening of her legs, and even her breasts, as small and perky as they were, had filled out  _ just  _ enough to ensure that she didn’t look like a caricature of what someone  _ thought  _ the perfect woman would look like. 

I’d had difficulty deciding what to focus on that weekend - the beach, or the activities to be had there, or the bodies of my two favorite kouhais, who weren’t really looking like kouhais anymore. The “answer,” of course, was to focus on all three, but those pictures Madoka took - pictures that had since been immortalized in the depths of her constantly-updated Instagram page - made paying attention to the moment  _ itself  _ a bit more manageable than paying attention to that which was accentuating it. 

For as unintentionally revealing as our attire had ended up being, most of those pictures were reasonably modest -  _ most  _ of them. There was one picture - a picture of the three of us with our arms draped over each other’s shoulders, which Madoka had enlisted the help of a stranger to take - - that stood out from the others because of the presence of things that shouldn’t have been there; of things that I shouldn’t have even  _ noticed.  _

Things like the side of my right nipple peeking out of my top. Things like Homura’s hand dipping behind Madoka’s back in a manner that was a little more suggestive than it had any right to be. Things like the way Madoka stood with her feet apart, almost  _ intentionally  _ directing everyone’s attention to the soft mound between her thighs - to the  _ massive  _ cameltoe she sported there. Homura was dealing with much of the same - both of their vaginas, concealed by only a thin layer of fabric, had been inadvertently put on display for the world to see. Every wonderful curve of their puffy outer lips was perfectly outlined by the way their bikini bottoms had dug into them, showcasing their almost heart-shaped flowers in a way that was unbelievably erotic, yet completely and utterly unintentional. 

I wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to turn that image of the three of us into something sexual - and yet that dark, demented version of Mami Tomoe had managed to do it. To turn two completely innocent, bright-futured girls into the objects of petty  _ lust.  _ I’d lost count of how many times I’d masturbated to that one picture; how many orgasms the images of Madoka and Homura’s outlined vaginas had brought me. I’d found so many sick little details to “enhance” the experience, like how Homura’s nipples were faintly visible through her top, or how if a watchful viewer zoomed  _ way  _ in, they’d realize that they could not only make out every curve and depression of Madoka and Homura’s lower lips, but could see their  _ clits  _ just barely pressing up against the fabric. 

How… How much  _ spare time  _ would someone need to figure that out? How  _ little  _ would they have to do with themselves to be able to notice such a microscopic detail?

And how irredeemably  _ depraved  _ would they have to be to act on the urges that such a discovery would produce? 

All three of those questions were ones that I knew the answers to. Answers that I  _ wished  _ I could forget, yet didn’t have the willpower to put away. The urge to pull out my phone and look at that one photo - to dip a hand below the waistline of my underwear and indulge myself in the carnal pleasures that my dearest friends had been so unfortunate as to imply through their attire - was like a black hole attempting to encapsulate a doomed spacecraft; the people on board could run as much as they wanted, but at some point, they’d inevitably succumb to the pull of their aggressor. 

It wasn’t like this was something  _ I  _ wanted to do. In all the moments leading up to it, and all the moments during it, and all the moments afterward, my mind would scream at me to stop - to put an end to the madness, take my hand out of my pants, and reclaim  _ some  _ of the decency that I’d lost so long ago. 

And those calls were  _ always  _ drowned out by the screams of my most primal desires.

I never had the strength to fight back. Today was no exception - with my phone in my left hand, I made quick work of opening up Instagram and scrolling into the bowels of Madoka’s page. Past all the videos of Homura playing basketball, past the advertisements for her makeshift cheerleading club, past the pictures she’d taken on the first day of her and Homura’s senior year and past the pictures she’d taken when we were still on good terms. Deep down memory lane, until I came across what I was looking for -  _ the  _ picture. 

Even in its grainy resolution, it was just as erotic as ever; its more sensual details so miniscule, yet so present to someone that knew where to look for them. My thumb and forefinger pinched the screen and zoomed in on it as much as Instagram would allow, gently pulling down and to the right so that the crotch of Madoka’s swimsuit came into center frame. God, she… she had a  _ gorgeous  _ vagina - she  _ had  _ to, if the outline she’d left on her swimsuit was any judge. There weren’t any inner labia visible; just a pair of perfect,  _ puffy  _ outer lips that barely - just  _ barely  _ \- peeked out from the sides of her bikini bottoms. 

Madoka’s flower - it’d been  _ exposed to the air  _ when that picture was taken! 

Chills ran up my spine. The newfound cold caused my right hand to burrow its way under the waistband of my pants in search of a warm place to hole up; caused it to settle down with its fingers right on top of my rapidly-hardening clit. I… I was so  _ hot  _ down there, my hands so cold - the contrast was causing my clit to grow even more; forcing my body to send more blood in that direction to offset the sudden change in temperature. 

And it felt  _ good.  _

The pad of my middle finger settled down on the very tip of my clit, idly rubbing it in clockwise circles as my eyes gently shuttered closed and allowed my thoughts - my  _ fantasies  _ \- to overtake me. Madoka… her vagina had been on full display that day. What wasn’t visible through the painfully thin fabric of her swimsuit had been  _ out in the open,  _ ready to be discovered by anyone with enough time to notice. Her perky little clitoris, the curve of her outer lips and inner thighs, it was all there - all ripe for the taking. Why, she may as well have not been wearing  _ any bottoms at all…  _

_ God,  _ what an image! Madoka Kaname, clad in nothing but a bikini top, prancing around a densely-populated beach with her adorable - nay,  _ perfect  _ pussy unveiled and borne without an  _ ounce  _ of shame. Those puffy, puffy outer lips… would they jiggle in the same way that her butt and thighs did? Could they be as unbelievably soft as the flesh of her rear, or as delightfully curved as her big,  _ thick  _ thighs? 

My mouth opened on its own;  _ called out  _ with a gentle, unabashed vocalization that quickly took to bouncing around and echoing off my living room walls. My own voice made its way back to me; penetrated my ears in the same way that my fingers threatened to penetrate my core, and the pace of my rubbing accelerated. 

Phone still in hand, my thoughts began to wander further. What… what if Madoka had just decided to not wear  _ anything at all?  _ What if  _ none  _ of us had? What if we’d all agreed to go to the beach stark naked and showcase our bodies to anyone that cared to look at them? The pictures we would’ve taken, the trouble we would’ve caused; oh, the things we would’ve  _ felt…  _

It would’ve taken every ounce of my willpower to keep my hands off my two little kouhais. God, I just wanted to feel their naked skin against mine, to be able to wrap my arms around their bodies and squeeze them against me in a way that made sure every single nerve ending I had was undergoing direct stimulation. I wanted to grab Madoka from behind; to place my left hand on one of her perky little breasts while my right hand trailed its way down the side of her torso, around her thighs, and to the puffy, heart-shaped flower waiting between her legs. I wanted to press my vagina up against the soft, supple skin of her butt and  _ leave  _ it there, maybe humping up and down against her if I dared to find the courage needed to do so. The sensation… that feeling of her naked skin against my clit…  _ oh…  _

And what if Homura came and did the same to me? What if she and Madoka  _ sandwiched  _ me between their naked bodies, made a conscious effort to grope every part of me within reach? Their hands… their hands would be on my breasts, on my hips, my thighs; god, even my tummy and those little deposits of fat that might turn into love handles if I wasn’t careful. I wanted - no, I  _ needed  _ it… I  _ needed  _ to feel those two against me, needed to hear their breathing and smell their hair and  _ taste  _ their naked skin… 

Another moan left my mouth - this one long and drawn out; sensual and unashamed. I… I never lasted very long when I was thinking about those two. They were just so  _ beautiful,  _ both inside and out; in possession of personalities that drove them to adore others while  _ receiving  _ the adoration of their peers. Maybe one day… Maybe one day I could fill those needs for them; could make this hapless fantasy of mine a reality. Could I? Could I ever play my cards well enough to be caught between the naked bodies of the two most beautiful women to have ever graced the Earth? 

I didn’t have much time to speculate. The orgasm that proceeded to wrack my body did so without much warning; it snuck up on me from behind, grabbed me by the shoulders, and then didn’t let go. A budding pressure in my clit quickly spilled over and started to spread to the rest of my being; to my thighs, my breasts, my legs and my arms and my torso -  _ nothing  _ was immune from the pleasure that was so quickly taking me hostage, and nothing was intent on leaving that newfound captivity without a fight.

Even in the face of that orgasm, my right hand kept moving; kept rubbing my little clit in circles even though my body was screaming at it to stop. Sensitivity began to sweep over my pelvis, but I didn’t care - I was going to ride that orgasm out for as long as I could, and savor  _ every moment  _ I had before I was forced to return to the disappointing world of reality. 

More sounds were escaping my lips now, some intelligible and some not. Some were just moans, others were names - the names of my kouhais; of the girls I had once called my friends, but could now only bear to look at from behind a screen. I called out for them,  _ to  _ them;  _ cried  _ their names and begged them to come back into my life. Sobs and tears with unknown origins made themselves apparent; got in the way of the sounds of wonder and bodily highs that’d preceded them. 

I began to pant. My lungs ached for air as my voice continued to call out, now dwindling in its intensity. The waves of pleasure that’d wracked my still-clothed form failed to dissipate, still surging strong by way of the number I was doing on my clit. It still screamed at me to call it a night, to have some fucking  _ decency  _ and just put a stop to everything right then and there, but no - I had to milk that moment for everything it was worth, because it was the only time that I could live without the guilt I’d grown so used to being enslaved by. 

I felt my phone slip a bit in my hand, but regained control of it as my kouhais’ names escaped my mouth one final time.  _ Madoka. Homura.  _ Their names felt like velvet as they came off my tongue; 

I lay there for a moment, hand still down my shorts, but now no longer moving. The pace of my panting began to slow; finally began to die down as my eyes fluttered open and returned me to the cold, cruel world I’d been so graciously allowed to escape. My pupils dilated and took a moment to get themselves reoriented with my environment, even though it was the same, empty apartment they’d spent so much of their life staring at. It was a disappointing return - I’d thought that maybe one of these days I’d open my eyes to find myself in a new reality where I didn’t  _ have  _ to worry about the throes of continued existence, but… today wasn’t that day. I shook my head and brought my left wrist to my face to wipe a stray tear from my eye, only to hear a strange chime come from my phone. 

_ “Success! Voice message sent to Madoka Kaname.”  _

The color drained from my face. A pit unlike anything I’d encountered before began to form in my stomach; began to genuinely steal my breath away. I mouthed out a word of rebuttal,  _ begging  _ my phone to undo its action and save me from the fear wracking my body, but… the words failed to come. The inside of my mouth was drying out; losing the strength required to do anything other than hang open in shock.

My phone’s voice recognition… it must’ve heard me calling their names - thought I was trying to send them a message. It’d recorded everything - it’d recorded me  _ orgasming  _ \- and sent it straight to Madoka. Hadn’t even asked me for confirmation… it knew. It knew what I’d been doing; what I deserved for engaging in activities so unbecoming of even the most primordial of  _ human beings.  _

My thumb reached forward and hit the play button beside my message without my consent. I suppose some sickeningly curious side of me wanted to know just how much of my dignity had been sacrificed on that recording; just  _ how much  _ of me Madoka would be hearing when she took a listen to what may as well be the last message I ever sent her. 

Per the little numeric display beside the audio’s waveform, the message was twenty-four seconds long. It started out quiet at first; I suppose I’d been coming down from my initial high when it started. 

_ “Maybe… Maybe it didn’t catch much of anything,”  _ I thought.  _ “Maybe there won’t be anything of note in there--”  _

The sound of heavy breathing began echoing through my phone’s speakers.  _ My  _ heavy breathing. A quiet, soft moan was next, more resembling the call of a disembodied spirit than an orgasming college student. More silence, and then more heavy breathing. 

_ “See? You’re already halfway through, and there’s nothing too terrible--”  _

“M-Madoka… Homura…” my recorded voice called, causing the color to leave my face all over again. That wasn’t  _ just  _ the sound of me saying their names - it was packed with sensuality; with desperation - I’d spoken of them in the same way that they probably spoke to  _ each other,  _ when their curtains were drawn and doors were locked. I hadn’t the tone of a friend or a mentor, but the tone of… I don’t even  _ know…  _

“P-Please…” the recording called, echoing around for a moment before mercifully cutting off. 

My phone began vibrating, and I screamed. My grip on it loosened and it fell to the floor, only for the name of the  _ one  _ person I didn’t want to hear from to flash across the screen.

_ Incoming Call - From: Madoka Kaname.  _

-

My life as I knew it was over. 

I hadn’t answered that first phone call. Rather than give up, Madoka had called me again. Several times. Homura had as well - and I couldn’t bring myself to answer either of them. I didn’t have the strength to do anything other than watch as their names periodically flashed across my phone’s screen.

Madoka had left a voicemail at some point. A simple one - one asking for the three of us to meet up. Nine AM in the flower field near the park; the one where Homura had confessed to her. For what reason the meeting was called, she didn’t say - only that we all needed to talk.

A three-word text was sent her way - one telling her that I’d be there. Nine AM. In the flower field. 

At my Waterloo. 

-

I made no effort to dress myself up for our meeting. Why should I? For all intents and purposes, it’d be the last time I ever saw them on good terms; the last time I could ever look at them as something other than a bridge I’d burned through actions that could only be traced back to me. There wasn’t a point, I figured, in attempting to make myself look presentable – in the face of self-inflicted wounds, I assumed it was best to go out with a whimper rather than a fight.

My attire was simple; something I wore around the house quite a bit – a black, long-sleeved shirt that didn’t fit quite as well as it used to, with a hem that almost covered the black-and-white running shorts that had once looked reasonably modest, but had since committed to using their continued existence for the sole purpose of riding up my thighs. Both pieces of clothing were wrinkled from where I’d slept in them the night before; even the right sleeve of my shirt was a bit discolored from where I’d used it to wipe away some of those stray tears of mine the night prior.

Black running shoes with white soles complemented by black ankle-length socks rounded off the outfit I’d be wearing to my final stand with decency. I once again found myself fixing my hair up in those twin drills from days of old, though as per the usual, that was only because it was the easiest thing to do - there wasn’t much of a point in showering so as to wash it up and pump it full of all sorts of different shampoos and conditioners if a little flick of my wrist could accomplish the exact same thing.

Madoka and Homura had at least put some more effort into what they were wearing; were still able to take pride in the lives they’d forged for themselves. Homura, though still armed with those red glasses of hers, was in those lazy-looking warm-up clothes that athletes like herself seemed so fond of wearing before and after practices and games, this time manifesting as a purple hoodie worn over black running shorts complemented by calf-length socks and… were those slide-ons? Perhaps her real shoes were in the duffel bag she’d brought with her; Madoka’s might’ve been in there too. She wasn’t wearing any shoes at all – I guess she didn’t want to trample any of the flowers too severely – just a pink summer dress with a big white “M” sewn onto its breast.

I could tell that Madoka opened her mouth and smiled when she first saw me pull up and step out of my car – seven and a half minutes late, but at least _present_ – but that grin seemed to dissolve into a look of anguish when she saw my physical state. Mami Tomoe, once so proud and stoic, now probably looked disheveled and defeated; stuck wearing wrinkled clothes that didn’t fit on a body that’d bloated itself with the fruits of self-pity.

“G-Good morning, Mami,” Madoka said, the corners of her mouth flinching upward as if she were trying to _force_ herself to smile – to con herself into thinking that I _didn’t_ look like I’d been hit by a truck on my way to meet her. For a split second, I felt my mouth mimic hers; faintly opening to speak for _just_ a moment before slamming shut. What was I supposed to say? “Good morning?” Looking the way I did? I wasn’t intent on lying to her; the morning certainly hadn’t been “good” for me, and given the circumstances, I couldn’t say that I was _happy_ to see her and Homura, either.

And so I kept my mouth shut. Madoka’s irises seemed to shake just a little bit as I walked to the spot where she and Homura had settled down and took a seat beside them; saw how Homura’s mouth opened up just a little bit as she took in my appearance from a more proximate distance.

“M-Mami,” Homura asked. “Are… Are you okay?”

I felt my brow begin to furrow. I became conscious of the puffiness in my bloodshot eyes; of the black lines beneath them and the bits of acne and blemished skin that surrounded their domain.

“Does it _look_ like I’m okay, Homura?”

My heart _stung_ as each word left my mouth, each syllable a scathing, white-hot blade traveling through the air and directly toward a target that I once considered a friend. And Homura almost seemed to _jump_ as my reply registered with her, as if she’d been scared by some sudden noise. My chest throbbed as a look of… I couldn’t even define what it was, short of it including surprise, made its way across her face; that beautiful, confident, _happy_ face…

And I hung my head. I closed my eyes and let my temples descend until they were between my knees; let them come to rest there as I tried to visualize the looks she and Madoka were giving me. Had their emotions cleared now that I was showing my cards? Were they looks of shock, of fear, of hate, of _mockery?_

I hadn’t the heart to find out – I hadn’t the  _ nerve  _ to find out. Mami Tomoe’s spine had vanished long ago; she was now nothing more than a pathetic worm, incapable of facing the consequences of her actions.

I felt Madoka reach out and place a hand on my shoulder; heard her gently and nervously call out my name. My body wasted no time in shrugging away from her touch; of violently jerking away and back into the open air, where I was able to inhale long enough to let out a thundering roar of self-hatred that manifested as a blistering, scalding cry:

“Don’t touch me!”

I felt Madoka back away. Heard a faint gasp.

Felt my heart continue to sink.

Off to the side, I could tell that Homura was beginning to look through her bag. For what, I could only guess – so many things would’ve been fitting in that moment; a shattered photo of the three of us, a birthday or Christmas present that she no longer felt comfortable possessing, even a loaded gun with which to defend herself from my toxicity. All would’ve been welcome confirmation of my near- _ surgical _ destruction of our once-coveted friendship.

As Homura continued to shuffle through her belongings, I heard Madoka call out my name once again. Her voice wavered a bit this time, but it was barely audible over the internal echoing of command I’d issued. Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. Don’t come near me. Don’t talk to me, don’t think about me, don’t feel sorry for me and don’t try to help me.

_ “Please,”  _ I thought.  _ “Just leave me to rot.” _

The shuffling stopped. I felt myself tense up; brace for the impact of whatever object was set to be thrown – surely she’d end up throwing it – in my direction. My hands rose to cover my head as it ducked further between my knees and my stomach lurched from the awkwardness of the new position, but any physical pain I might’ve experienced in that moment was so well-deserved that I almost  _ welcomed  _ its presence.

“Mami,” Homura said. I felt a swish of air grace the outside of my leg; could tell that she’d extended her hand. I didn’t look to see what she was holding.

“Mami,” she said again, sterner this time. I didn’t move. A pressure began to build behind my eyes, but tears refused to come.

“Mami!” She said, rising to her knees beside me. I readied myself for the ensuing impact; curled up even tighter as my body screamed at me to let the position go. Madoka said nothing; perhaps she was content to watch her girlfriend release her wrath onto the pathetic little worm that’d masturbated to her the night before. Maybe that’d been why they brought me out here to begin with, to teach me a lesson – I deserved as much, after all; what was left of my self-worth had been burned at the stake as soon as I’d sent that message the night—

The impact came, but only as a soft  _ clink.  _ There was no pain to be had; no pressure or force. Just a little drowned-out noise; the sound of something hard contacting smooth metal.

My ring. The one I’d gotten after I made my contract; the one that contained my very existence. She’d put something up to it; something that was causing waves of… something to wash away - to evacuate my body and be absorbed by something above my head.

A grief seed.

I felt myself remain idle for a moment, my muscles relaxing as the panic response that’d waged war on my body began to dissipate. It was no miracle cure, but I felt a weight begin to lift off my shoulders – to be absorbed into the little black-and-gray capsule that Homura had likely put her life on the line to obtain.

With my eyes wide and mouth ever-so-slightly agape, my head slowly rose from its prison between my knees. I gradually turned my aching neck to the left and allowed my vision to settle on Homura; to settle on a look that showcased not disdain, but… relief.

And then she wrapped her arms around my torso.

Madoka followed in suit – she from the right, and Homura from the left. Both of them, who my subconscious mind had been so bent on destroying my relationships with, were embracing me. 

I’d known going in that needing a grief seed hadn’t been the problem with me – that thought had occurred to me weeks ago, and shoving one of those things up against my soul gem after forcing my tattered body to go to hell and back to get one had failed to alleviate my anxieties in the way that I thought it would. Impurities had indeed been building up, but taking them out of the equation was far from the demise of my anguish – but the  _ gesture  _ that came with Homura giving me one of hers, of her handing the fruits of her labor over to me without so much as a second thought…

There were two schools of thought battling for dominance now – was this a peace offering of sorts? An invitation to start anew; to rekindle a friendship that I’d managed to lose sight of?

I – or at least something inside of me – quickly shooed those thoughts away. It redirected my attention to the recording that’d brought the three of us here, to the desperate moans and cries of Madoka and Homura’s names that I’d broadcast out to the girls I treasured more than anything. How… how was anyone supposed to recover from  _ that— _

“Mami… I don’t want you to talk right now, just to listen,” Homura said. I winced, but then… felt her tighten her embrace around me.  _ Sniffle  _ a bit.

I opened my mouth to reply, to tell her not to waste her breath, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I… Madoka sent me that recording last night, Mami.”

_“Here it comes,”_ I thought. _“Welcome to the end of the line.”_

“She told me what was on there, but… I realized that in the four years that I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you cry.  _ We’ve  _ never seen you cry – never seen you act down, or sad, or upset… the most you ever got was frustrated, and that was only when we put ourselves in danger. So… hearing that recording – hearing  _ you… _ ” She stopped, sniffling again – harder this time. “I… Dammit, I’m so  _ sorry.” _

I felt something run down my cheek and land on my shoulder. I couldn’t tell if it’d come from me or Homura.

“We’re lucky enough just to know that you’re still  _ okay,” _ Madoka said. “I… I don’t really know what that recording was; if you were in danger or if you were at your apartment or in a labyrinth, but… Homura’s right, Mami – we’ve never seen you cry; never seen you look… like  _ this.” _

Madoka’s embrace tightened as well.

“And it hurts! It hurts to hear, it hurts to see, it hurts to think about – and… and…”

“It hurts because it’s  _ my  _ fault,” Homura said. “Because I got so caught up in what  _ I  _ was doing that… that I forgot about one of the biggest reasons I got to where I am.” 

“And it’s my fault too, Mami - I got carried away with school and cheerleading and basketball; got caught up in all this new stuff, when I never had a reason not to be happy with what I already had. I… I was a bad teammate, and an even worse friend _.  _ There were times when you’d pop up in my head, but…  _ God _ , I’d just push you off to the side. I’d think that nothing could get to you; that you’d  _ want  _ me to go out and do whatever it was I was trying to do, instead of spending that time with you. And I was so,  _ so  _ wrong.” 

Another speck of something cold hit me, rolling down the back of my neck this time. But… it didn’t make sense. Why would she…? 

“It… It…” I said, stammering as I tried to get the words to form on my trembling lips. I started to shuffle; to try and shake loose from their embrace, but their arms held tight.

“Mami—” 

“It’s  _ my  _ fault,” I said, the words coming out as little more than a rasp. I expected that to be it, for Madoka and Homura to let me go and accept that I was just some lost cause from a time long since passed, but… their embraces only tightened further. 

I opened my mouth to speak, to try to finally offer up some words with which to explain myself, but only a sob came instead. It caught in the back of my throat and I choked it down; sending it back to the depths from which it’d come. I  _ wanted  _ so badly to tell them how I should’ve been more resilient; how, even in the face of such isolation and adversity, I shouldn’t have given up and lost hope the way I did. That they hadn’t done anything wrong; that they’d been acting on basic human instincts while I got to reap the rewards of having put all my eggs in the same, very busy basket. 

“Mami…” Madoka said. “You can’t blame yourself like that.”

“She’s right,” Homura said. “There wasn’t anything you could’ve done differently - you kept reaching out and we kept pushing you away; this isn’t your fault - it’s ours, and we’re not going to let you take the fall for it.” 

“Why?” I croaked. 

Wouldn’t it be so much easier for them? Wouldn’t their lives be more manageable if they were able to pass that misplaced guilt off to me, where it wouldn’t bother them anymore? 

“Stop… Stop it, Mami,” Madoka said. “You… You  _ know  _ why we wouldn’t do that.” 

_“Why?”_ I asked.   
  
I felt a tear stream down my cheek. This one was from Homura - had to be. She sniffled once, but then choked on a clear, open-mouthed sob. I could feel her brow furrowing tightly as she forced her eyes shut; as she readied her rebuttal. 

_ “It’s because we love you, Mami,”  _ Homura said. __

I… 

I hadn’t heard those words in seven years. My parents had been the last ones to tell me that I was loved; when I was  _ twelve.  _ More than a third of my life had passed without me realizing that phrase was still in anyone’s vocabulary. That wasn’t something that people just  _ said;  _ something that could be tossed around with just anyone. A phrase like that - to  _ love  _ \- it meant something, no matter how it was used. Romantic, platonic, familial… the sheer  _ power  _ that it had couldn’t be understated. 

It was enough to make my heart  _ throb.  _ To pound against my breast and  _ scream  _ for catharsis. My chest twisted and ached as Homura’s words echoed in my head; began to get processed by a mind that was still reeling from the wounds it’d inflicted upon itself. And somehow, some way, in all my twisted creativity… I couldn’t come up with any ways to disown what she’d said. 

Couldn’t tell myself that it wasn’t true. 

There wasn’t a dramatic, all-inclusive moment at which the dams broke. I didn’t burst into tears on the spot or scream into the heavens as that beautiful phrase began to sink in, but… it brought down some of the walls I’d erected. Allowed me to toss my inhibitions to the side, if for only that moment, and be  _ honest  _ with myself. 

I… I’d done some bad things. But I wasn’t a monster. I’d let myself go, but I wasn’t worthless. I’d spent a while by myself, but I wasn’t alone. I’d been in a dark place, but I wasn’t devoid of hope. 

I’d gone years without hearing it, but… I wasn’t despised. 

I was still loved. 

_ I was still loved.  _


End file.
